


Take The Heat

by tielan



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Cooking Show, Drama, F/M, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-07
Updated: 2011-08-02
Packaged: 2017-10-20 05:24:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/209211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tielan/pseuds/tielan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are some things that even celebrity chef John Sheppard can't make palatable!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the choc_fic challenge in February 2008.

The last thing John wanted on his show was a guest. Unfortunately, at the Stargate network, he discovered that there were some things that not even John Sheppard could make palateable.

“I don’t babysit celebrities,” he complained to his mother over the phone.

“Did you tell them that?”

He tossed a beanbag through his basketball hoop, and punched one fist in the air as he scored. “Of course, I did. They’re not biting.” He’d gone as high as he could go, beyond Elizabeth Weir, his program’s directing manager; past Sam Carter, the network programming chief, all the way up to Jack O'Neill who was, as far as the Stargate network was concerned, God Almighty when it came to the programs.

O’Neill was characteristically blunt. “ _We need the ratings. She’s got them. It’ll be good PR_.” Dark eyes had measured John shrewdly. “ _You can’t tell me that working with that will be a hardship?”_

Given that ‘that’ was the hottest face and body on the A-list, most men wouldn’t have argued.

Given that John was accustomed to hotties throwing themselves at him - even if he never _did_ see it coming, for all Rodney’s sniffs and Elizabeth’s sighs - John would have argued, except that he’d pretty soon seen that O’Neill wasn’t going to budge on this.

“Maybe you should have gone into the AF after all,” came a snarky comment in the background of the phone call. “Sounds just like. The big  brass sayeth and the little brass obeyeth.”

John winced. “Okay, I deserved that.”

“Damn straight you did,” said Patrick Sheppard dryly, even as his wife shushed him.

“Well, she seems nice enough in her interviews, John. Just be yourself and she’ll probably be falling all over you within minutes.”

John sincerely doubted that.

He was right.

\--

In John’s experience in the TV industry, guests on shows turned up late.

Which was why the Monday morning eight-thirty production meeting wasn’t held earlier or delayed.

“We’ve got a number of choices for what you can cook with her,” Elizabeth said, briskly. “Apparently she’s got a big interest in traditional African foods - her background is part Tanzanian, part French Canadian - but her manager said she would run with whatever we had.”

John glanced up from the pad of paper that had been sitting blankly before him for the last fifteen minutes of the meeting. Sure, he was going through with this, but that didn’t mean he was going to like it. “Roasted Spice Goat Curry,” he said. “With basmati pilaf rice, I think. And palm seed jelly for dessert.”

In the moment of silence that followed, he could _hear_ the steam bubbling up in Rodney’s brain even before the explosion a moment later.

“Have you lost your _mind_? Where are we going to find goat in this town? And palm seeds? And what if the recipe calls for lemon? What are we going to do then?”

John smirked at Rodney. “Then we leave the lemon out,” he said, trying to make it sound simple and knowing it wasn’t that easy. Cooking was like the teamwork his dad always went on about - a delicate balance of flavours and effects bound together in a whole. Synergy - the whole being greater than the sum of the parts.

“Leave it out--?”

Rodney was interrupted by Elizabeth’s admonitory, “John,” which was her preface for all the reasons why ‘Roasted Spice Goat Curry’ was a bad idea, starting with the fact that they didn’t even know if Ms. Emmagan would be up for cooking such a dish, when there was a brief, brisk knock at the door.

A moment later Chuck poked his head into the conference room. “Uh, ma’am?” He looked at Elizabeth. “Ms. Emmagan’s here.”

“Already?” Rodney expostulated. “But we haven’t even finished the meeting!”

“Well, I could probably ask her to wait, but her bodyguard’s making noises about running a security search through the building and--”

He got no further as Elizabeth rose, made an imperious gesture of ‘follow me’ to John and strode out.

“Goat curry,” John told Rodney. “You’ll rise to the occasion.”

“I’m not made of dough,” grumbled Rodney. “And you’re no hand at baking, anyway.”

John’s first impression of Teyla Emmagan was casual elegance - sprawled in the waiting lounge off Studio A, with her head propped up on one hand as she flipped through Vogue magazine with absent-minded interest. Sleek and slim in jeans and a V-necked top, she looked a far cry from the fashionably-dressed, jewellery-bedecked star of the red carpet - just another woman.

She glanced up as they came in, her eyes flickered from Chuck to Elizabeth to John, and John felt an odd lurch of his world as the dark eyes took his measure.

Then she rose, flashing a brief smile of thanks - or charm - at Chuck.

“Ms. Emmagan,” Elizabeth was first in with the handshake and the effusive greetings, giving John a moment to recover from the stomach-turning jolt he’d received at seeing the actress in the flesh. “I’m Elizabeth Weir, director of programming for ‘ _Take The Heat_.’ We’re so pleased to have you on our show.”

Even as John silently thought that she could speak for herself on that point, Ms. Emmagan glanced beyond Elizabeth with a dark-lashed gaze and a dimple formed in one cheek. “Mr. Sheppard does not seem so enthused.”

John wondered just how the hell a man explained that a woman had thrown him for a loop, leaving his palms sweaty, his heart racing, and with a bad case of instant crush on his hands. “Mr. Sheppard is just a little surprised. You’re shorter than you look on TV, Ms. Emmagan.”

Her mouth twitched. “It’s the heels,” she said demurely. “They give me height.”

“Well, it’s good you left them behind. Heels aren’t any good in a kitchen.” John surveyed her, using the long glance to check her out as well as estimate her height. We’ll have to see about getting you a box, though.”

This time, she laughed - a broad, open sound that slipped smoothly across John’s ears like fingers across bare skin. “Will the height difference be particularly difficult, do you think, Ms. Weir?”

To give Elizabeth her due, she only hesitated a moment. “I think we’ll manage to accommodate it. We’ve certainly had greater obstacles to overcome in the past.” The glance she gave John suggested that his still-not-entirely-enthusiastic reception of Ms. Emmagan hadn’t gone unnoticed. “If you’ll come this way...we were just in a meeting when you arrived.”

“Ah.” There was a lot of meaning in one syllable, John noted. “I have interrupted you, then?”

John stuck his hands in his pockets and smiled as innocuously as he could manage. “As a matter of fact, we were just discussing what we’d cook during your episode. Got any problems with roast goat?”

One eyebrow rose. So did the corners of her mouth. “I do not believe that roast goat is one of your customary specialties, Mr. Sheppard.”

“You watch my show?”

“It would be foolish to offer to guest on a show without having watched any episodes of the show.”

“Good point.” John motioned the way in. “But you don’t have any objection to roast goat?”

“I have no objection to spicy food.” The dimple dipped deep again as she passed him, glancing briefly at Elizabeth, presumably to check that it was okay before she turned to John in the flood-lit corridor that led down to the meeting room. “It _will_ be spicy, won’t it?”

“It’d be appropriate for a program by the name of ‘ _Take The Heat_ ,’ wouldn’t it, Ms. Emmagan?” John said, meeting her smile and noting the way her bodyguard fell in close behind them, a looming presence without a word to say.

“That was my thought,” she said. “And if we are to work together, I’d like to be called Teyla.”

“Then I’d like to be called John.” He held out his hand.

Her grip was firm and electric, palm against palm. Her eyes lifted to his, and he caught the gleam of something heated stirring between them. The only reason John realised he’d flushed was that the air felt cool against his skin when her bodyguard made a faint motion with his head, swinging finger-thick dreadlocks like a silent weapon, and they started walking again.

Elizabeth took over with some comment about the show and the procedures, but although John didn’t participate in this part of the conversation, his attention was most definitely on his guest star.

He had a strong feeling that this episode of ‘ _Take The Heat_ ’ definitely wasn’t going to be one that was kept solely in the kitchen.


	2. Out Of The Kitchen

John couldn’t get his mind around the boots.

“They eliminate the need for a box,” Ms. Emmagan - Teyla - pointed out as they brought in the wardrobe and makeup head to look her over.

Kate Heightmeyer pursed her lips and shot a surreptitious glance at John. “Ms. Emmagan, it’s just a standard precaution - no boots in the kitchen.”

“No boots in _my_ kitchen,” John added firmly. “It’s just not safe in heels.”

Teyla Emmagan regarded her footwear with a thoughtful expression before looking up. “They are wide-heels, Mr. Sheppard. Rubber-soled for a non-slip grip, and I am quite adept at moving in them.”

Considering the way she’d commanded his attention the instant she walked on set that morning, John could attest to her skill at moving in the boots. The problem was not the matter of boots on Teyla Emmagan; the problem was the matter of boots in his kitchen.

“At the least we’ll need an insurance waiver,” muttered Rodney. John turned his head towards the set where the set manager was fussing over the placement of the foods that were to be used in this episode and glared. The last thing he needed was for his guest to get the idea that she could get away with this on his show.

Too late.

“Then I will sign an insurance waiver,” she said. “And Mr. Sheppard, let me assure you that I have navigated everything from steps to cobblestones in these heels and am not given to falling over in them.”

John could have chewed Rodney out for giving her an easy way out. But with her agreement to sign a waiver, he could either kick up a stink and declare that the boots had to go, or he could give in gracefully and resign himself to defeat.

Beneath the query in large, dark eyes, John took the graceful option. After all, she’d proven easy enough to work with so far, from her agreement with the menu that they’d planned out, to her willingness to go along with their suggestions.

He could allow her the boots - as long as she didn’t break her ankle while shooting his show. If she did, then they were all in major trouble.

“All right,” he said. “Rodney, get us a waiver. Kate, is Ms. Emmagan otherwise okay in the dress and makeup department? Where the hell is the lighting and sound department for this run-through? And what are you smiling at?”

With her outfit and makeup okayed, Teyla dimpled at him as people scattered, moving into their places like parts of a well-oiled machine slipping into gear. “Oh, nothing. I was just thinking that you would give certain actors I have worked with a run for their money in the prima donna department.”

“It’s my show,” he pointed out mildly as he walked up to the edge of the set. “I like it to run smoothly.”

“Of course,” she said as she followed him into the kitchen, bringing with her the faint scent of tea rose. “And I would like this to run smoothly also.”

“Then it’s a good thing you’re here for the run-through.” There’d been some concern about that. Apparently Teyla’s manager had made a fuss about her taking the time out to do the run-through. At first, Elizabeth hadn’t even been sure she’d turn up; but when Teyla appeared at the studios - once again, early - they supposed that matters had been suitably resolved.

And John had not felt like this was his first show - nerve-wrackingly excited at the prospect of working with this woman. At all. Really.

The crazy thing was, he’d never been a fan of her work or particularly interested in her as an actress. To John, Teyla Emmagan had always been just one more pretty face on the movie circuit. A good actress, a hot body, with a couple of out-of-the-public-view flings here and there, the occasional linkage with a fellow actor, but no really juicy gossip.

He was playing it cool - or hoped he was. Rodney hadn’t yet made any sneering comments about John ‘kirking it’, which was a good sign - or as good as he could hope for. John was hoping to keep it that way.

“So,” he said as he rested his hands proprietarily on the bench, “are you any good in the kitchen?”

Even as the words left his mouth, he tried to catch them back.

An eyebrow rose delicately above gold-dusted eyelids, but her smile tilted lopsidedly. “I do not usually cook for myself,” she admitted, picking up a small bowl of chopped ingredients and studying it. “My godmother swears I can burn water. But then she is an excellent cook herself and has always despaired of teaching me.”

John regarded her with some surprise. “So what are you doing on my show?”

“Cooking.” She must have sensed his roll of the eyes because she put the bowl down and turned directly to him. “Actually, it was at my godmother’s encouragement that I applied. She said that if she could not hope to teach me to cook, then perhaps the handsome young man on the television could.”

Torn between embarrassment and pleasure, John didn’t know which way to look. Teyla caught his expression and burst into a peal of laughter, causing heads to turn towards them.

“Your expression, John!”

“So glad to have amused you,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound too sour about it.

“Never mind,” Teyla told him, waving one hand around them at the studio. “You will have your revenge in full when you teach me to cook.”

John wasn’t convinced.

Then, over the next hour, he discovered just how bad a cook Teyla Emmagan really was.

It wasn’t that she was scatterbrained, or didn’t follow instructions. She did - he watched her. Hell, after the smoking wreck of the first pan of onions, the whole studio watched her. She could follow instructions like an obedient child, and yet the synergy of cooking simply didn’t work for her. At all.

“I did say that I was a bad cook,” she said apologetically at the midmorning break.

“And I didn’t believe you,” John said, throwing himself into a chair. “I still don’t know how you burned those onions.”

After the first disaster, John had watched her fry the onions until they were nearly ready. A minute more and they’d have been fine. The heat was perfect and everyone from the least critical (Miko) to the most (Rodney) swore that Teyla hadn’t touched the controls. Still, when they scraped the onions into the bowl, the burned scent was unmistakable.

Elizabeth was just on the verge of tearing out her hair - a famous guest that they couldn’t use in the kitchen? Disaster.

“Anyway,” he said, accepting the beer handed to him by one of the ubiquitous aides hanging around the place and offering her the just-opened canister of Pringles. “We’re going to work around that. Somehow.” He just hadn’t considered the details of it just yet. A cooking show with a guest who didn’t cook at all? Crazy.

On the other hand, there were ways and means of getting around the situation. As long as her jinx - or whatever it was - didn’t extend to all activities in the kitchen.

“Rodney?”

“I’m busy!”

“And I’m about to make you even more busy,” he said. Rodney was always busy; besides, it was John’s job to make him even more busy. “Get over here.”

Rodney huffed over, clipboard in hand. “What?”

“She can’t cook.”

“Yeah, you know, I think I might have noticed that, what with the, oh, scent of burned food everywhere in the studio. Do you know how much trouble we’ve had with the studio smoke alarms today?”

“So we use her as something else?”

“What? Like, scanty clothing and... Is she going to use that knife on me?”

John watched as Teyla began peeling an apple with swift, sure strokes. From the glittering smile on her lips, he guessed that her thoughts on Rodney at this moment weren’t exactly appreciative. “Interesting as it might be watching her use the knife on you, Rodney, I thought that maybe she could use the knife on the ingredients instead.”

“What? Like a two-parter? Preparation and cooking?”

“Most people have to do both,” John pointed out. “We usually just show the cooking. Switch it around.”

“Oh, great. Do you know how much more effort and time that will take? We’re a cooking show, Sheppard, not an all-around ‘things you do in the kitchen’ show! Why don’t we just show the washing up while we’re at it?” Rodney threw his hands up in the air and stalked around to the end of the room where he poured himself a cup of coffee.

Teyla sliced off a chunk of apple and nibbled at it. The downlights of John’s break-room gleamed off the polished ovals of her fingernails. “Will the change be troublesome?”

“Everything is troublesome when it comes to Rodney,” John explained wryly. “Including Rodney.”

“I heard that!”

“You were supposed to!” But the retort relaxed John a little. The fact that Rodney wasn’t holding forth on the sheer stupidity of this idea was a good indicator that the man was thinking about it. And if Rodney was thinking about it, he’d see that John was right. Once he came to that conclusion, it would be easy flying. Rodney was the main impediment as far as logistics went, since Elizabeth would agree to anything if John could only make it work.

“All right, all right,” Rodney planted his cup of coffee on the table with a thump, either not noticing or ignoring that a little coffee spilled out over the side and beginning to pat himself down, looking for his phone. “We’ll work on setting things up so she chops and you cook with her looking over your shoulder. Partnership in the kitchen or something - the pundits will love it. Except we’ll need an insurance indemnity in case she slices herself with a knife...”

Even as he spoke he was dialling a number, and a moment later was on the phone to someone and jabbering away as he walked out of the room.

John shook his head. “He can be a pain in the ass, but he’s the best at what he does. He’ll get it sorted out.” He studied her. “You’re okay with this?”

Her lips quirked. “It is a solution that works for us all,” she said. “Although Sharon will be disappointed that you could not make a cook out of me.”

“Well, maybe another time.” It was only once the words were out of his mouth that John hoped that she’d take it as an invitation, and hoped he hadn’t been too obviously fishing. “Will you have to talk to your agent?”

“Most likely.” Teyla shrugged. “If I do not object, Halling will probably not cause trouble.” She sliced off another piece of apple, absently offering it to John.

It was a casual gesture, without thought or premeditation.

John leaned across and tugged it out of her fingers with his teeth. He stopped short of brushing his mouth against her fingers, although God knew he was tempted, and just chewed as though he casually ate out of a beautiful woman’s hand every day.

“It’s probably best you talk with your agent as soon as possible,” he said, swallowing beneath the suddenly watchful gaze of gold-dusted eyelids. “The sooner we have it arranged in contract, the sooner we can get things moving.”

The practicality helped. There might have been a slight flush on her cheeks as she finished off the last slice herself and stood, but her tone was brisk. “I’ll call Halling now, then.”

John leaned back. “See, we might not be able to make you good at cooking, but you can be useful in the kitchen.”

He cursed himself for the inanity. If he’d been intending to send her mixed signals then he was doing an excellent job. But her lips curved and her eyes held a limpid gleam as she looked back from the door.

“Actually,” she said sweetly, “I’m _very_ good in the kitchen, John. I’m just not good at cooking.”

And she walked out of the breakroom, boots and all, leaving John to pick up the pieces of his brain in the wake of that thought.


	3. Kiss The Chef

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She told him she was good in the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn't really planned to write any more for this, and then someone put forward a John/Teyla PWP prompt and this little croissant popped out of the oven...

John turns to adjust the stove just as she’s passing him on the way back from the drawer with the corkscrew, and their bodies just brush, his outstretched arm grazing her breast.

Desire quivers in Teyla’s belly as they dance out of each others’ way in the small, compact kitchen. But even if their bodies barely touch, their gazes clash and tangle, and hazel eyes take on a lambent flare as John closes the distance between them and brings his mouth down on hers.

He kisses like he cooks - with certainty and skill. Teyla likes the way he nips at her mouth, begging an invitation. She likes the way he feels beneath her hands, crisp hair at his nape, fine muscle beneath his shirtsleeves.

She likes the way he traps her between his thighs and the benchtop, pressure enough for her to feel his body rising to her heat, but enough wriggle room to escape if she wants.

Teyla doesn’t want escape.

They’ve been dancing towards this from the first day she turned up at the studios, a guest star for his cooking show. And if it was not immediately obvious, it soon became clear to both of them that the hours spent together, first in preparation, then in production, were all part of the gradual process of seduction - the coming together of two strangers in slow stages of intimacy.

Now, there is nothing slow about the slide of his fingers down the curve of her buttocks, or the lingering brush of one fingertip in the hollow of her throat.

“Are you sure?” He says, when they come out of the kiss. And his eyes are soft, but wariness lingers behind desire, and she wonders what left such an imprint on his soul.

Teyla teases his mouth with small kisses, pushing back against his body to leave him in no doubt. “Make me sure, John.”

Dark brows lift in sudden arch wickedness. “Here?”

“Here.” And she slides her fingers down his throat, and begins unpicking the buttons of his shirt, watching his face as she reveals a bodyscape of pectoral muscle. His jaw clenches, his throat works, and his eyes flame as he lowers his mouth to hers again.

Her fingers stutter as his lips slide along her jaw up to her earlobe. She trembles when she feels his fingertips brush down the front of her dress. A moan escapes her lips as he brushes the tip of one nipple but doesn’t return.

Teyla wants John Sheppard, here in his kitchen, hard and fast and fierce between her thighs. All the passion and energy he gives to his show, all the excellence and thoroughness he gives to his cooking, she wants it devoted to her. She craves it, like a starving woman craves food.

As his fingers slide the zipper down her spine, and his teeth draw off the straps of her bra, Teyla allows herself to feast on his mouth, on his body. An actress must be wary of her weight, but this hunger need fear no calories.

She arouses and is aroused, and is only vaguely aware that John has drawn them over to the bare benchtop between kitchen and dining when his hand flattens the fingers of one of her hands on the cool marble. “I want you on this,” he says hoarsely.

“Riding or ridden?” Teyla asks, and John’s eyes gleam with hot amusement as he slides her panties down, and pauses on the way up to slide his tongue into her cleft for a teasing minute of blinding fire.

When John comes up again, she’s still trembling. “I want you riding me,” he murmurs against her cheek.

Her hands reach for him, grasp him, free him from the cotton of his slacks and the silk of his boxers. She traces her fingers down his length as he eases himself onto the bench, then takes him in her mouth and makes him tremble and beg.

In the last sunlight of the California autumn, Teyla poises lips and hips above him as a smile plays on his mouth and in his desire-hazed eyes and one hand cups the curve of her buttock, guidance and encouragement.

“Ride me?”

“With pleasure.”

And she does ride John with pleasure, from the laughing first thrust deep into her body, to the gasping, greedy finale when his fingers are bruising her hips as he shudders and she shudders, and he spends himself in her.

Later, when they are clothed again and eating his prepared dinner sedately at the table, their legs conspicuously entwined beneath the drape of the tablecloth, John lifts his glass, his eyes gleaming warmly across at her.

“To being very good in the kitchen.”


End file.
